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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28567764">The Things That Money Can't Buy</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/mackiedockie/pseuds/mackiedockie'>mackiedockie</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Highlander - All Media Types, Highlander: The Series</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Gen, Highlander Holiday Short Cuts Challenge</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-01-05</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-01-05</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 03:48:51</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>10,763</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28567764</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/mackiedockie/pseuds/mackiedockie</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Corey Raines left a few loose threads dangling in Seacouver when he booked out of town.  Richie Ryan was all at loose ends when he took off on his motorbike not long after.  Sure enough, they tangled.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>35</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Highlander Holiday ShortCuts 2020</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>The Things That Money Can't Buy</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadySilver/gifts">LadySilver</a>.</li>



    </ul></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>@@@@@@@@@@</p><p> </p><p>Richie downshifted as he leaned carefully into a long, snow-plowed uphill curve, swiping frozen flakes from his visor.  ‘Sun Valley’ had sounded like a cheery and warm destination.  It was only “...two beers and a piss away,” according to a truckstop clerk, which was apparently a refined local measurement for 100 miles.  </p><p>Highway 20 had looked like a scenic two-lane shortcut through the hills of Idaho on his rambling journey away from Seacouver and the fake Methos cockup.  It was a nice ride, as freezing, unpopulated lunar landscapes went.  He hadn’t seen another car or house in miles.  </p><p>Until, as the westering sun dropped below the horizon and clouds blocked the stars, a truck’s headlights appeared on the road behind him.  On paper, Highway 20 cut 50 miles off the crowded freeway route to Sun Valley, where Richie could poach one of Mac’s many global timeshare condos.  Or such was the theory.  In practice, he had to cross Cat Creek Pass and a hundred miles of snow-blown blacktop bordering the Smoky Mountain wilderness, first.</p><p>Richie straightened up his line as his bike hit a short patch of black ice, and chanced a glance over his shoulder.  The pickup still followed at a doggedly respectable distance, but never passed him, even on the long straightaways.  He could only see the headlights now, as dark fell.  </p><p>He’d first spotted the tail outside Ontario, Oregon, and they played cat and mouse on the freeway until well past Boise.  He thought he’d ducked clear on the turnoff to Highway 20, passing a Kenworth before exiting abruptly at Mountain Home.  He wasted an hour of daylight lurking at the truckstop, trying on shades, pretending to be a Watcher.  </p><p>Richie survived the Arby’s corned beef special while he memorized the curves and distances to the supposedly sunny ski resort in the mountains.  He took one more long look down his backtrail before bundling up in his warmest leathers and roaring into the craggy volcanic hills.  His battered map had promised a good road with a tiny squiggle for a pass in the Bennett Hills.  It had definitely undersold the rapid thousand foot rise in elevation culminating in twisting loops high above the Cat Creek ravine.  </p><p>Idaho was not conforming to his expectations.  The license plates stubbornly claimed he was in the land of “Famous Potatoes”, but Richie had yet to see an identifiable potato plant since leaving rainy Seacouver.  Deepening drifts and a sudden driving snowstorm descending out of the northerly mountains did not fit his inner weathermap at all.</p><p>The Cat Creek grade steepened, his bike skidded, and Richie straightened and slowed.  He hunched his shoulders against the chill wind.  The chill wind, and more--up and down his spine crawled the teasing frisson of an Immortal in his wake.  The truck was catching up.</p><p> </p><p>***************</p><p> </p><p>Methos strolled into Joe’s with an unfettered heart and a strong thirst, revelling in the total lack of any Immortal buzzes in the bar.  “It’s a wonderful day in the neighborhood, Joe!”</p><p>“Look who’s been catching up on the cartoon channels,” Joe’s smile smoothed out his worry lines as he ambled over to pour a draft from the new local brewery he was testing.  “You’ve even got the cozy sweater down pat.”</p><p>“Public Television, Joe.  After your time, but popular culture is endlessly relevant,” Methos said airily.</p><p>“It must be exhausting to keep up with Mr. Rogers, with all that lounging around on the couch, exercising your remote control thumb.”</p><p>“While you had to jump up and adjust the aerial every time you changed channels from Captain Kangaroo to Rocky and Bullwinkle?” Methos didn’t quite snicker.  </p><p>“Don’t laugh,” Joe said with a nearly straight face.  “Peabody and Sherman set me on my accolade-strewn path to Watcherdom.”</p><p>“And there I thought your muse was Tooter Turtle,” Methos needled. “Drizzle, drazzle, drozzle, drome, time for this one to come home!”</p><p>Joe scooped up Methos’ half-finished beer, and held it out of his reach.  “If you tell Mac, Mr. Wizard, you’re cut off.”</p><p>“My lips are sealed, under the Watcher oath!” Methos swore piously, and was rewarded with a topped off glass.  Beer bribes were a basic and surprisingly sacred coin in their otherwise complicated relationship.  “Speaking of whom, the neighborhood is uncommonly quiet.  Mac’s still up at the island?”</p><p>“Mmm,” Joe assented without technically answering.  “That run-in with Ingrid just shouldn’t have gone down like that.  Who would have thought we’d be seeing Nazis in Seacouver in 1996?”</p><p>Methos twitched an eyebrow.  “Me?”</p><p>“Still, if Ingrid hadn’t been so damn invested in fighting an old war, maybe she would have listened to reason.”</p><p>“Reason has very little to do with our duels,” Methos mused.  “And we rarely change history.  That’s probably for the best.” </p><p>Joe poured himself a small beer and clinked glasses.  “Amen.”</p><p>“Speaking of lacking in reason, where is Mac’s apprentice these days?”</p><p>“Road trip.  Mac gave Richie access to his timeshare network, so he could decompress after that cockup with your peaceful alter ego and William Culbraith.  He could be anywhere he can push that motorcycle of his.  He’s probably pickling himself in a hot tub as we speak.”</p><p>“I can respect that choice.  They grow up so fast.  I suspect you have a good idea where?”</p><p>“Mmmm,” Joe shrugged.  “Motorcycles can be a bitch to follow.” </p><p>Methos took a different tack.  “I trust you did give him “the talk” about keeping that particular name that starts with “M” off his lips.”</p><p>“I told him I’d hunt him down and skewer him myself if he got careless. And eighty-six him, to boot.”  Joe topped off Methos’ glass.  “He’s easy, like you. Threaten his beer, he falls in line.”</p><p>“You know us so well, Joe,” Methos held up his refilled glass.  “A good bartender is worth any royal crown or caliphate.  Cheers.”</p><p> </p><p>***************</p><p> </p><p>Geography had never been Richie’s forte in high school, when he showed up in class at all, but he definitely knew he didn’t want to face an unknown Immortal in unfamiliar territory on uncertain icy footing.  He goosed the throttle coming out of the last curve before the top of the pass, felt the bike slide, and backed off. </p><p>This time the motorcycle didn’t straighten.  Richie’s rear wheel swung out, freewheeling on the ice, even as his headlight lit up the guardrail.  The bike plowed a deep vee in the barrier, crumpling both.  Richie pitched over the top rail into the dark ravine below.</p><p>Richie curled into the fall, gritting his teeth against a fatal impact.  He wasn’t expecting a cushioning floof.  He cannoned into the fresh snow at the top of the slope and executed a perfect dojo tumble.  And another.  And another.  When he stopped, he was completely immobilized in mashed snow on all sides, and had no idea what direction was up.</p><p>Welcome to Idaho.  Land of Famous Potatoes.</p><p>Richie fainted for lack of air twice, totally losing track of time, but his helmet kept his head from freezing solid.  He was beginning to seriously imagine he was going to be stuck until spring thaw when something clonked the top of his head and a blade slid past his visor, burying itself in the snow perilously close to his nether regions.  “Hey!” he yelled, before thinking it through.</p><p>Many unpleasant scenarios passed through Richie’s mind after the sword withdrew and the distant sound of a shovel crunching through hard packed snow worked closer and closer.  At least the swordhole let in more air.  </p><p>The shovel scraped against his helmet.  A flashlight flickered.  Richie tensed, but his arms were still pinned in the frozen mash.  Friend?  Foe? Or…</p><p>“Hey, there, Richie!  How’s it hanging?”</p><p>...Or Cory Raines.</p><p> </p><p>********************</p><p> </p><p>Joe let the backup bartender handle the small crowd on this slow Tuesday as he and Methos yarned about history, popular culture, and bar snacks through the ages. Tonight, Joe was emphasizing why he was never, ever, going to carry jellied eels, even if Methos knew a Londinium wholesaler who was still in the business.</p><p>Joe was not fool enough to match beers with Methos, but he was sporting a pleasant glow when the Nokia in his jacket’s inner pocket pinged “Grand Vals”.</p><p>Methos looked down his nose at Joe wrestled out his mobile.  “You rang?” he asked in his best Lurch imitation, bringing them both perilously close to guffaws.  Popular Culture Night was going to wreck Joe’s reputation as a curmudgeon.</p><p>“New phone, next year’s 1997 model.  Supposed to have better shielding.  We’ll see.  Still have to adjust the ringer,” Joe frowned, finally silencing the beeping brick.  “It’s my night off.  If it’s important, they’ll call back.”</p><p>“How many did you go through this year?” Methos asked.</p><p>“I can’t say this year was a normal year,” Joe sighed.  “Three this autumn alone.  The EMP surges burn up the innards if I get too close.”</p><p>“Sorry.”  Methos didn’t sound sorry at all.  “Try not getting too close.”  He was about to add a technical observation about the superiority of paper and pen and pirate spyglasses when the mobile phone pinged again.  “You’d better answer.  The Watchers still frown on truancy.”</p><p>“Tell me about it,” Joe lost his grin, reaching into his pocket after he checked that no one was in eavesdropping distance.  After the tribunal, the Watchers rarely called to share recipes and shoot the breeze anymore.  “Joe, here.  Speak to me.”  Slowly he straightened, listening silently, and finally sighing.  “I’ll look into it.  Reserve a room.  Best case, they part ways peacefully.  Worst case...I’ll be on the road by morning.”  He clicked the Nokia off with finality and pushed it onto the table.</p><p>“Let me guess.  Mac ran a red light and got a parking ticket?”  </p><p>“Maybe better, maybe worse.  Richie ran into an avalanche and Cory Raines hauled him out,” Joe ran his hand through his cropped hair and eyed his glass.  “There’s a pair to draw to.”</p><p>“Oh, Cory loves having a sidekick, and he’s not too particular about how he picks them,” Methos said in teasing reminiscence.  “But in his favor, he rarely hunts Immortals, and he’s highly creative in duel avoidance strategy.”</p><p>“And who taught him that?  Anyone I know?” Joe poked. “Will Scarlett, or Friar Tuck?”</p><p>“The Bob Snood era was a work of art,” Methos sidestepped the question.  “The bottom line is, Richie could find a worse teacher.  In fact, he has.  Repeatedly.  I think you’re the only one that hasn’t gotten him killed.”</p><p>Joe looked sideways, then down at the table, then took a long drink.  “I’m not his teacher,” he grumbled.</p><p>“Not you, too, Joe?  You got him killed?”</p><p>“Practically the first time we met in Paris.  Horton tried a driveby, Richie got in the way.  Probably saved my life.”</p><p>“You didn’t put that in the Chronicle.  Smart boy.  But that doesn’t obligate you to drive through raging blizzards to save Richie from Cory.”</p><p>“It’s not Cory I’m worried about.  And all in all, I’d rather eat jellied eels than drive to the middle of the northern Rockies in December,” Joe groused.</p><p>“I’ll talk you around yet,” Methos said brightly, relaxing.  “Eels are very healthy.  Have you heard of omega fats?  All the dietary rage.  Another beer?  Complex carbohydrates are underappreciated, too.”</p><p>Joe beckoned for another pitcher for Methos, and took one last sad sip from his own mug before levering upright.  “Enjoy.  I’ve got to load the go bag in the wagon and check the network.”</p><p>“The Watchers are calling _you_ in for reinforcements?  There’s something you’re not telling me,”  Methos rather overdid the air of concern, earning a hard glance.</p><p>“Why ask?” Joe suddenly grinned.  “You want to come help?”</p><p>“Heaven forfend.  I am still clinging to the tattered shreds of my reputation as a lowly and timid researcher.  Besides, I had my fill of snow for the century in Tibet last summer.”</p><p>“You’ll have to tell me about it when I get back,” Joe grinned, “Or you’re buying.”</p><p>“Dream on, Joe.  Dream on.”</p><p> </p><p>******************</p><p> </p><p>“I can’t believe you beheaded my bike,” Richie picked up his headlight and handlebars, and shook his head as he surveyed the rest of the mangled remains of his motorcycle.  “What is with you running me into ditches, Cory?”</p><p>Cory held up his hands, laughing.  “I was a hundred yards back, Richie, this is all on you.  Motorcycles are dangerous.  On snow?  In the dark?  I think your learning curve is bending in the wrong direction.”</p><p>Richie growled, because Cory was right.  He should have stayed on the interstate in the lowlands.  “Don’t tell Mac.  Or Amanda.”</p><p>“Or what?” Cory dared, heading back to his truck.  “Or you’ll walk back?”</p><p>Richie paused and stared at Corey’s vintage 4 by 4 ‘57 GMC, wondering how it made it up the pass.  “It might be faster,” he said, but only under his breath.  There was still snow melting under his collar that he couldn’t reach.</p><p>“Tell you what,” Cory said reasonably.  “This is two you owe me now.  Load what’s left of your bike in the back and get in and warm up.  You can help me with a job and we’ll call it even.”</p><p>“I owe you!  How do you figure?”</p><p>Cory held up two fingers, with a more than suggestive flourish.  “One for digging you out.  And one for helping Mac and Amanda blow me to smithereens back in Seacouver.  You nearly took my favorite bits along in the process.”</p><p>Richie winced.  Cory had a point.  In comparison, running off the road was the kind of life lesson he could live with.  Still, he hadn’t lost all sense of caution.  “Do I have a choice?”</p><p>“Well, I’ve seen one car in the last couple of hours--you could stay here and hitchhike.  In the dark.  In a blizzard.  Fifty miles from the nearest working phone.  Your call.  Or you could cop a free ride to Fun Valley with me.”</p><p>Richie took a long look over the edge of the road.  It was too dark to see the bottom of the ravine.  It had to have taken Cory hours to find him and dig him out.  He met Cory’s dangerously merry eyes.  “You could have left me down there.  Or taken me out.  After we blew you up in Seacouver, I’m a little surprised you didn’t.”</p><p>“Our lives are too long to carry grudges, Richie.”  Cory lost his smile, and let the silence stretch. </p><p>Richie nodded slowly, thinking of the times he’d wished he’d left his sword in his sheath in the last year.  “Okay.  I’ll drop the baggage if you do.  But if I ride shotgun, I call the tunes,” Richie had his standards.</p><p>Cory flashed his merry smile again, all teeth.  “You don’t spent much time dialing in AM radio in the high camas prairies, do you?”</p><p>“AM?  As in no FM? No CD player?  It’s 1996, for Pete’s sake!”</p><p>“I never upgraded to 8 track.  Seemed a shame to wreck the original dashboard for a fad.”</p><p>Richie peeked into the cab.  Shiny leather bench.  Four on the floor.  The retro dolphin gauges and chrome knobs were too cool to sully with plastic CD parts.  He had to admit Cory had a point.</p><p>Together they cleaned up the crash site and wrestled the remains of the bike and Richie’s saddlebags into the pickup bed.  Richie stashed his sword nearer to hand in the cab.  “What kind of job do you have in mind?  I’d just as soon stay off the Federal radar.”</p><p>“Just a little good deed,” Cory said as they topped out on the pass.  “When I was researching the last job, I got a line on a chiseler using a high finance land office to evict families.  He tears down homes to build fancy McMansions.”</p><p>“In Famous Potatoville?”</p><p>“In the stupidly expensive resort up in the mountains.  The main street is lined with lovely little banks and investment firms.”</p><p>“Sun Valley,” Richie connected the dots.  He’d seen the stupidly expensive prices of the timeshare rentals.  “So you’re stealing from the rich and giving to the ski bums?”</p><p>“Did you know ripping up mortgages is almost as fun as stealing gelt?  Especially if you pay them off with stolen cash?”</p><p>“I do have a more than a passing acquaintance with Amanda,” Richie admitted dryly, as he nestled into the leather seat and held his hands over the truck heater.  “But that would be a new twist.”</p><p>“Where is the lovely Ms. Darrieux, by the way?” Cory asked with suspicious gentility.</p><p>“Far, far, away, dealing with the fallout from the Grinkhov mob,” Richie said with a pang, covering it with a laugh.  “And look where I am, after she warned me to stay away from shady characters.”</p><p>“Do as she does, not as she says.  You’re lucky to have her as a friend and teacher,” Cory’s answering smile was free of ridicule, until he ruined the effect by waggling his eyebrows.</p><p>“And they call me immature,” Richie muttered, fiddled with the radio, finding only one ghostly frequency where the DJ Dusty Roads favored Waylon Jennings.  “One last thing I haven’t figured out yet.  Why were you following me to Sun Valley?”</p><p>“I wasn’t following you.  I was following Sam Grinkhov, international financier, land grabber, and money launderer,”  Cory glanced over as he steered the truck through the blizzard.  “Weren’t you?”</p><p> </p><p>*********************</p><p> </p><p>Methos kicked back and made inroads into Joe’s pitcher of local brew.  He toyed with the phone Joe had left on the table, thinking.  Joe wasn’t forgetful, as a rule, but sometimes trusted too easily, and too deeply, and tended to be overly careless with himself.  The last twelve months of chasing Immortal doings, compounded by three badly placed bullets, had aged him faster than his fleeting years.  It did not suit Methos at all to see his investment in Joe endangered.  Liberal libations were certainly an evergreen attraction, but unfettered conversation was irreplaceable.</p><p>He could stop Joe, temporarily.  He could invent a small problem with MacLeod.  He could let all the air out of his tires.  Still, it wasn’t his place to steal Joe’s fun.  He needed some sun and exercise.  Methos tapped the phone thoughtfully, then snatched his hand back when the Nokia pinged again.</p><p>Methos pitched his voice lower,  channeling a gruff American accent, and toggled the answer key.  “Joe’s.  What?”  Just because Joe could trust too deeply, didn’t mean he should. </p><p>“Joe, it’s worse than we thought,” the reporting Watcher rushed.  “Sam Grinkhov must’ve stuck around and seen Cory Raines heal after MacLeod blew him up.  He’s going beyond looking for Amanda and Cory for just the money.  He’s starting to look for people who don’t die.  _Immortals_.  We’re starting to pick up his inquiries on three continents about survivors and resurrections. This guy is real trouble.  He might even be capable of luring Immortals in to find out what makes them tick.”</p><p>“What?” Methos dragged his fingernails over the audio pickup, producing a creditable staticky sound.  “What?  Call me back.  Bad connection.”  Then he headed to Joe’s office to virtuously return the phone. </p><p>Methos was going to have to pack his go bag, too.  He was going to need those new socks.  And that fuzzy Patagonia jacket that was warmer than it looked.  Flatten a couple of tires on Joe’s jeep, catch the intermountain prop jet, and Methos could be in and out of Sun Valley, mission accomplished, before Joe could call Triple A.</p><p> </p><p>**************</p><p> </p><p>“Behold, the Street of Dreams,” Cory announced as they crossed a creek and drove up the resort’s main drag.  The snow had piled up so high during the storm that the plows had pushed it into a ten foot ridge down the centerline of the road, broken only at the intersections.</p><p>Sun Valley was _lit_ for midnight a hundred miles from nowhere.  Strings of white Christmas bulbs flooded Main Street with cheer against the December darkness.  Ignoring the near zero cold, people dashed from bar to bar, throwing the occasional snowball to celebrate the snowfall.  A bonfire surrounded by revelers in the storm flickered in a parking lot.  “Wow, it’s like Shangri-La for slackers,” Richie approved.</p><p>“You’ll fit right in.”  </p><p>“So this is skiing?”</p><p>“This is après.”  At Richie’s blank look, he added, “Après-skiing.  After-skiing?” he helpfully translated.</p><p>“I know what après means,” Richie grumped.  “I’ve been to France.  But they don’t dance on the sidewalks in ski boots and burn sports equipment in bonfires on the Rue Amelot.”</p><p>“Don’t be a gaper.  There’s fresh powder tomorrow, it’s the first big storm this year.  They’re praising Ullr the Snow God by sacrificing worn out gear.  I’ve seen a lot more lethal local customs over the years.”  Cory downshifted.  “Business first.  Pay attention.”  Driving slowly, he pointed out the nostalgic appeal of the local Idaho First Bank, the poor corporate karma of Wells Fargo, and the shiny excess of the Zions Bank building.  </p><p>Richie in turn wistfully remarked about the intimate lighting at the Sawtooth Club, the lively reggae music at Whiskey Jacques, the promise of prime rib at the Pioneer.  “Hungry?” he nudged.</p><p>“Scout first, party later,” Cory stated firmly, as they drove through all six blocks of the town center into a darker neighborhood.  After a couple of blocks, he pulled in across from a spotless white A-frame with Bavarian trim surrounded by a high picket fence and sporting a reassuring sign, “In a Jam?  Trust Sam!”</p><p>Richie stared at the architectural unlikelihood.  “Seriously?  This gingerbread house belongs to the same Sam Grinkhov that owns that loansharking rattrap in Seacouver?”</p><p>“Different traps for different rats,” Cory answered.</p><p>“Speaking of traps, that pretty French door has gotta be alarmed.  What’s the response time for the local sheriff?”</p><p>“Lester the Arrester?” Cory calculated in his head.  “Six blocks.  One to five minutes.  Unless we have a diversion, or they think it’s a false alarm.  Why don’t you chuck a snowball up on the welcome mat, and we’ll see?”</p><p>Richie jumped out of the truck, found an ice ball in the snowbank, and pegged it at the door, then nipped back inside the warm cab.  “Go!”  Lights popped on as the A-frame lit up like a Christmas tree.</p><p>Cory fishtailed up the snowy road and pulled into a side street to watch.  “Three minutes, not bad,” he observed, as a squad car cruised up and the deputy knocked on the door.  “They might respond slower if we toss a few more snowballs later tonight and make them think there’s a short in the alarm.”</p><p>“And ignore any alarms when you walk in with a tommy gun in broad daylight tomorrow?,” Richie said dryly.</p><p>“Now you’re getting into the spirit, kid!”</p><p> </p><p> ******************</p><p> </p><p>A ribeye and a schooner considerably improved Richie’s mood, to the point that he cheerfully threw another couple of snowballs at Grinkhov’s office before they drove to the condo.  On the last volley, the police just cruised by, not even checking the door, and the lights remained off.  There was no sign of Grinkhov at all.  </p><p>Richie snuck over the picket fence and picked the front door lock just on general principle before running back around the corner and jumping into the truck.  “I don’t think they are taking us seriously, anymore.”</p><p>“The cops could think we’re some evicted locals,” Cory nodded.  “They may even sympathize.  They pay rent, too.”</p><p>“We could just waltz on in now,” Richie grinned.</p><p>“True, but I like the idea of leaving Grinkhov awake and wondering.  Besides, making the getaway without a good night’s sleep?  Amateur move,” Cory teased.  “Speaking of which, where can I drop you off?  They’re rolling up the sidewalks, and it’s time to leave the streets to the snowplows.”</p><p>Richie dug out his battered map and deciphered the directions in the corner.  The town was small, and the condo well-lit, and so close they could have walked the distance in five minutes.  The skies had cleared while they were cruising the Street of Dreams, and the temperature had plummeted.</p><p>“Is there room at the inn?” Cory asked offhandedly as they pulled into the darkened parking lot.</p><p>“You don’t have a place to stay?” Richie asked, taken a bit aback.  He thought back to their tour of the town.  No vacancy signs had been the rule, he realized.</p><p>Cory shrugged.  “I usually check in to a no-tell motel, last minute, cash, or sleep in the car when I’m on a job.  I can camp out in the truck, if you’re finicky about your roomies.”</p><p>Richie had found that apart from being an unapologetic trickster, Cory was a world class party hound, and if the bars hadn’t closed, they’d still be happily arguing over who got to pay for the next round.  Leaving him in the cold was unthinkable.  “We’ll toss for the couch,” he said firmly, and dug into his bag for Duncan’s condo key.  It wasn’t there.</p><p>Cory dug into his own pocket, and dangled the brass key in front of Richie.  “I had a few minutes to go through your stuff back on the road by Cat Creek.  Just in case you didn’t react well to my heroic rescue efforts.”   </p><p>“Joker.”  Richie snatched the keys back, laughing, and reminding himself to check the rest of his bag later.</p><p>“Rich man, poor man, beggarman, thief,” Cory corrected.  “Joking makes the rest of life more livable.”</p><p>That was a lot of philosophy to chew on without more beer.  Richie jumped out of the truck and scanned the near cloudless sky. “The snow’s cleared out.  Check out all those stars!  The Milky Way is huge!”</p><p>Cory shut down the truck and pressed down the chrome door locks before joining Richie in the parking lot, hoisting his own bag.  “Night travelling pilgrims called it ‘The Road to Santiago’, back in the day in Europe,” Cory said, gazing up at the swath of galaxies.  “The ‘Winter Way’ to Icelandic Vikings, or the ‘Thieves Path’, in some old Mesopotamian stories.”</p><p>“It sounds like a map.”</p><p>“It is.”  Cory shivered.</p><p>“Hey, those stars are moving over there!” Richie pointed low on the horizon to the west.</p><p>“That black lump is the mountain, you flatlander.  A thousand meter vertical.  Those are snowcats, grooming the intermediate runs.  Haven’t you ever been skiing?”</p><p>“How hard can it be?” Richie asked.  “You point the pointy ends downhill and let gravity do the rest, right?”</p><p>“Oh, right, absolutely, it’s just like riding a bike,” Cory lied, the picture of reassurance.  “I can’t wait to watch your first run.  I’ll have no problem getting you started.”</p><p>“Getting started isn’t the problem… ,” Richie belatedly remembered all the lessons in gravity Duncan had taught him over the years in the dojo.  “...It’s getting stopped, isn’t it?”</p><p>“What’s the worst that could happen, right?” Cory waved away Richie’s concerns.  “In fact, maybe we’ll rent some gear and take a run or three before the job tomorrow.  It’ll loosen you up.  Our target likes to ski, too.  He’s up first light every day, before he goes to work throwing widows and orphans out into a snowy gutter.”</p><p>“How long have you been working at this resort angle?” </p><p>“Since before Duncan blew me up.  Intel pays, if you have the resources and time.  Then I laid down some false trails for Grinkhov’s crews overseas.  More  gunsels chasing ghosts and shadows in Europe mean fewer gunsels left to litter the scenic snowbanks around here.”</p><p>“Do you really think it will be that easy to take down a connected guy like Grinkhov?” Richie asked dubiously, as they approached the entry to the condo.</p><p>“Even international crime lords tend to disconnect and defocus in their own vacation hideout,” Cory declared confidently.  “Never underestimate the element of surprise.”  </p><p>The lights over the door weren’t working, and Richie had to squint and try the key a couple of times to get it to turn and the door to swing wide.  The hall was warm.  Richie hunted for the light switch.</p><p>The crunch of snow behind them was their first warning.  The puff of a silenced pistol was their second warning.  Even as they both turned and tried to dive for cover, the sudden impact from the gangster’s shots collapsed them both on the threshold through the open door.</p><p>“Surprise,” Sam Grinkhov said, as he walked up to survey his work.  No more warnings would help, as Grinkhov reached down, took the keys, and dragged their bodies inside.</p><p> </p><p>********************</p><p> </p><p>The Dash 8 flight into the small mountain airport took off at oh dark thirty, but the pre-dawn flight promised to get travelers to the Valley before the lifts spun up in the morning.  Methos was just nestling into the prop jet’s cozy seat when a shadow obscured the overhead light in the aisle.  </p><p>“Move over, you vandal.” </p><p>“Joe!” Methos said with a mixture of amusement and annoyance.  “Technically, I was more a Scythian than a Vandal.”</p><p>“Well, the next time you drop caltrops in front of my faithful steed, you can pay for the new tires,” Joe said, unceremoniously dropping his briefcase in Methos’ lap.</p><p>“The Watchers will take care of it.  Your after-action reports and expense sheets are masterful works of art,” Methos said airily.  You needed new rubber, anyway, the way Mac runs you around.”</p><p>“Accounting audits are supposed to be above the pay grade of a lowly researcher,” Joe grumbled.</p><p>“You Watch MacLeod, I Research you.  The karmic wheel turns in mysterious ways,” Methos said mysteriously.</p><p>Joe blinked, then muttered, “Bite me.”  After giving Methos a quelling side eye, he settled into the prop-jet’s narrow seat and buckled in, snug in a comfortable cocoon of denial.  “Down to business.  Grinkhov is dangling a lot of reward money.  It’s only a matter of time before he stumbles over a disaffected Watcher.”</p><p>“Like you?” Methos prodded.</p><p>Joe shrugged, accepting the barb.  “The chum is in the water.  Best to be proactive. Maybe I can convince him Immortality isn’t communicable.  Or maybe we can recruit him.  Think of the efficiencies he could build into our network in Moscow.”</p><p>“Not.  An.  Option.”  It was Joe’s turn to hold up his palms against Methos’ unexpectedly murderous look. </p><p>“Yeah, yeah, I know.  I’m just looking for a way to contain this fubar with the minimum of hurt.”  Joe didn’t need to mention the Christine Salzer debacle.  “Now that you’re along for the ride, maybe you can convince Richie and Raines to blow town and clear the deck for us.”</p><p>“I don’t do decks.  Delegate, Joe.  Your minions can follow gangsters for you.”</p><p>“Richie’s Watcher bailed,” Joe confessed.  “He said he didn’t sign on to mess around with gangsters in international crime syndicates.”</p><p>“They don’t make minions like they used to,” Methos commiserated.  “Just who did he think the Watchers are?  Travel writers?  You’re an international cartel of bodysnatchers.”</p><p> “Hey!  Don’t you mean ‘we’?” Joe protested, then thought better of it.  “Never mind.  Minions are cost prohibitive at the rate I lose them, according to the front office.”  Joe handed Methos a notebook.  “Unless lowly researchers count.”  </p><p>“At your service,” Methos bowed.  “But why are you here?  Skiing isn’t your bag.”</p><p>“I’ll surprise you someday.  But you’re right, I don’t do moguls.  I snoop around while other people do moguls.”  Joe passed over a sheaf of handwritten notes.  “Grinkhov skis every day, sun or snow--it’s the one thing he might love more than money.  You, on the other hand, carved your first pair of skis before Hannibal crossed the Alps.  That’s why I brought you.”</p><p>“Back in the bar, you left that mobile phone on the table on purpose.”</p><p>“That would make me one calculating sonofabitch, wouldn’t it?” Joe said with a grin.  “Gotcha.”</p><p>Ninety minutes later, Methos looked out the prop-jet’s window at the rising sun peeking through the last wisps of the storm.  “Powder day for me.  I’ll shadow our mark, and look for opportunities for a heart to heart.”</p><p>Joe didn’t press for details.  “We’ll rent a car, but you’ll have to drive.  You can drop me off to scope out Grinkhov’s office, and if he’s not there, you can go channel your inner Stein Ericksen.  Call me when it goes pear-shaped.”</p><p>“I love it when you channel your inner Clan Chief and order me around,” Methos teased. </p><p>Joe refrained from slugging him, but it was close.  “From the office, I’ll grab a taxi and roust Richie.  If I know him, after the first night in town he’s sleeping until noon.”</p><p>“Better me than him,” Methos yawned.</p><p> </p><p>*******************</p><p> </p><p>Richie gasped for air, then groaned in pain.  Reviving after getting killed never failed to suck.  Aside from the up side.  Reviving.</p><p>There was a sound of slow clapping, and Richie squinted to see past a bright desk lamp trained in his eyes.  He saw a dark figure leaning against the kitchen island that divided the small living room from the smaller kitchen.  Their swords were displayed like trophies on the formica top.  “Two invulnerables for one.  I was fairly certain about Raines, but the teenager was a gamble.”</p><p>“Grinkhov,” Richie identified, disgusted.  “You shot me on a bet?”</p><p>“Smooth move, kid,” came Cory’s voice, altogether too close to his left ear.  ”You were supposed to pretend to be dead until you could break free, jump the bad guy, and run him through like the greedy bug he is.”</p><p>“Damn, I hate it when I miss my hero cue,” Richie said, rattling the handcuff, which was firmly shackled, like Cory’s, to the sixties vintage heating pipes.  “What does the cartoon villain want?” he asked Cory, sotto voce.</p><p>“I can hear you two fools,” Grinkhov complained.  “Perhaps I should keep experimenting on you until I run out of bullets.  The results would be messy, but informative.  Unless you can see the advantages of satisfying my curiosity?”</p><p>“Well, as long as it’s only curiosity,” Cory said agreeably.   “I have my standards.”</p><p>“What is your real name?” Grinkhov asked.</p><p>“Snood,” Cory promptly answered in a deep Bond voice.  “Bob Snood.”</p><p>“Why do you carry around these antiques?” Grinkhov pressed, drawing Richie’s sword up from  the kitchen island and sighting down the blade at them.</p><p>“Chicks dig fencers,” Richie said optimistically.  “Haven’t you ever watched Zorro?”</p><p>“Maybe I should experiment on your larynx first.  Are there limits to your invulnerability?”</p><p>“No,” Cory answered, at the exact time Richie said “Yes.”  They looked at each other, then back to Grinkhov.  </p><p>“It depends,” Richie shrugged, giving Cory the lead with a twinge of disquiet. </p><p>“On energy fields,” Cory said vaguely.  “You have to know how to tap into the amplified field energy.”</p><p>Richie stared at Cory in bafflement, then channelled outrage into a single “Shhhush, dammit!!!  You know what happens if that secret gets out!  None of us will be safe!” </p><p>“This can be a civilized exchange.  Or not,” Grinkhov warned.  “I would rather not waste time and money on professional interrogators.  None of us would like the results.  Tell me about the Invulnerables, and how to become one.”</p><p>“You’re dreaming, pal,” Richie shot back, earning a poke in the ribs from his fellow captive.  “You’ve been reading too many comics.”</p><p>“Don’t argue with him, Richie, I know his history.  Graduates of Russian jails don’t tend to exaggerate,” Cory shuddered, quite realistically.  “Pain is not my default preference.  I’m 150 years old.  I’ve learned when it’s time to deal.”</p><p>Knowing Cory was closer to 1,500 years old, give or take a few larcenous centuries, Richie leaned into the con to see what he could learn.  “It’s...it’s not right.  The field energies...the power curves...what if he drains us?”</p><p>“What do you mean, ‘us’?” Cory asked Richie sadly, then focused on Grinkhov.  “Life is energy, a fight against entropy.  Too little energy, we fade away.  But young life energy, properly channeled…the process is really simpler than you might suspect.  For those that survive.”</p><p>“The bar can’t be particularly high if this punk lived through it,” Grinkhov smiled as he gestured toward Richie.  “The mystery is, why would anyone bother to transform him?”</p><p>Cory shrugged.  “Accidents happen.”</p><p>“Hey!” Richie didn’t have to pretend to be insulted.</p><p>“No, literally, accidents do happen.  The first few known transformations were blue-sky lightning strikes, more often fatal as not.  Ben Franklin accomplished the first deliberate regeneration with a primitive electrical connection,” Cory dangled.  “Shelley researched covert Victorian experiments when she wrote her stories.  Tesla perfected the transfer, only to be drained to a husk by his worst rival.”</p><p>“Direct current then?  That’s all?  How strong?” Grinkhov leaned forward, dubious, but interested.</p><p>“My truck battery has done it,” Cory stated humbly, then nodded toward Richie.  “And you’ll need a donor.”</p><p>“Wait!” Richie protested.  “Why me?  You’re stronger!”</p><p>“Don’t worry, Richie.  You’ll get a couple years older, Mr. Grinkhov here will get a couple years younger, everyone is happy!”</p><p>“That’s not fair, Cory!  He’s old!  You give him two years, he’ll take twenty!” Richie kept his woebegon expression and added a whinge of betrayal.  Cory should know what he was doing.  Richie hoped.</p><p>Grinkhov leaned back on the kitchen counter.  “I do not react well to ridicule.  I believe I have seen this movie.  Does your story include Rodents Of Unusual Size?”  He drew out a notebook and paged through it one-handed.  The gun did not waver.  “A colleague in Minsk has mentioned that there are...the translation is vague….Witnesses.  My colleagues are tracking down these Witnesses as we speak, and we will compare your stories.”</p><p>“Who?  Whatever,” Cory shrugged.  “Don’t believe me, then.  Who are you going to call, the Nietzsche Society?  Supermen ‘R Us?”</p><p>“Not the Witnesses.” Richie swallowed.  This situation was threatening to turn into a long term pain in the ass.  “You don’t mess with the Witnesses, man.  As in, ‘they don’t leave any’.”</p><p>“Neither do I.”  But Grinkhov frowned and flipped back through his notes as he said it.</p><p>Cory turned to Richie, his brow furrowed, and mouthed, “Witnesses?” even as he twisted and cracked something in his wrist, slipping one hand free, barely changing his expression.</p><p>Richie winced, and shifted to cover Cory’s free hand with his shoulder.  Grinkhov might be getting some of the words wrong, but he was learning far too much, too fast, about Immortals and Watchers.  He and Cory would have to think faster.</p><p> </p><p>******************</p><p> </p><p>After dropping Joe off to scope out Grinkhov’s office, and seeing him enter safely and begin to charm the realty secretary, Methos drove the rental Suburban to the bottom of the mountain.  The sun was just touching the top tower of the ski lift on the uppermost bowls.  It was frigid in the valley.  The trailing winds of the blizzard blew curls of snow off the upper ridges, forming cornices.  Feeling underdressed in his drafty city slacks, Methos headed straight for the lodge.</p><p>He bought warm gloves and a styling snow suit and rented all the gear, including Nordica boots, some fancy K2s, and Scott poles, and pocketed all the receipts for Joe.  He was headed out the door to join the liftline when a distant boom rattled the lodge, and the liftline reversed and flooded back into the lodge.</p><p>“Saved by the ski patrol,” Methos murmured, as hangdog skiers made gloomy predictions about when the patrol would finish chucking hand charges above the unstable slopes.  They wouldn’t open the mountain until the snowpack settled.  Methos crossed “Death by Avalanche” off his mental list of possible solutions for the inconvenient Grinkhov investigation.</p><p>Some of the skiers ordered beer for breakfast, without anyone blinking an eye, making Methos feel right at home.  Commandeering a sofa near the fireplace with a good view of the ski lift and the door, Methos daydreamed of various ways he might wrap this mission up quickly.  </p><p>He could catch the same chair with his target--so sad, he lost his balance while brushing snow off his skis!  Such a long drop...a bit public, but the lift itself would whisk him away from the scene of the crime with alacrity.  He let his mind wander.</p><p>Ski poles--just sharp enough, at short range, if properly thrust as he skied by.  And people fell down while skiing all the time.</p><p>Skis--quite well balanced for their weight, if one had room to swing.  They wouldn’t take a head, but they’d leave a lovely dent in a mortal skull.</p><p>He could masquerade as a ski patrolman and drop a charge between his target’s bindings as he christied down one of the bowls.  Fanciful, and far too high profile to cover up, but watching Joe try to put together that particular epic Watcher report would almost be worth the silly risk.</p><p>Most discreetly, he could lure his target out of bounds to a secret powder stash--it would require a great deal of friendly convincing, but secrets shared were often irresistible.  There were so many lovely tree wells on the untracked backside slopes to conceal the body until spring.  Or until the bears woke up.</p><p>Methos roused himself with a sigh.  The hedonistic local ambience was definitely speaking to the cheerfully dark side of his brain.  There was still no sign of Grinkhov, which meant plan A had dissolved even before first contact with the enemy.  </p><p>The lift line was re-forming.  The avalanche control crew packed away their blasting caps, poached first tracks, and opened the mountain.  Clearly, Grinkhov was too busy elsewhere to take his morning skiing constitutional today.  Methos dug the mobile out, wishing he could just ditch it and catch the chair.  </p><p>He switched on the Nokia and...there was no signal.  Nada.  Zip.  In this modern era of 1996 this quaint little valley was still landline locked.  It might be just as well.  If Joe was still snooping at Grinkhov’s office, he might not want his pocket pinging anyway.  </p><p>With no little regret, taking one last look back at the smooth slopes and ice spicules curling off the ridge, Methos returned the ski gear, enduring the disbelieving looks from the clerks.  It was something of a local sin to waste a blue-sky powder day, he realized, and having to go to work was a pathetic excuse.  He reluctantly trekked back to the rental Suburban in the parking lot.  </p><p>Maybe Duncan’s condo had a nice couch.  He might stay awhile.</p><p> </p><p>******************</p><p> </p><p>Joe spent an entertaining and productive morning visiting with Grinkhov’s disaffected office manager, Glenda, of stone blond mane and fiery personality.  Onstage, Joe prided himself for being a professional flirter, when a song required.  In real life, the power was sadly dormant.  Now, he felt himself impressed and more than a little daunted by the sheer force of Glenda’s earthy and unedited ramblings.  </p><p>“I was a bartender for twenty years, and I’m ready to go back,” she declared.  “It’s more ethical.  And the clientele is classier.  Present company excepted!”</p><p>“Wait til you get to know me, you might change your mind,” Joe said, smiling empathetically about problematic day jobs.  His encouragement was like dropping a nickel in a jukebox.</p><p>“And here we are, missing the best snow of the season, while that grade A patio patriot Hummer-driving Richard Cranium is out there skiing the powder off.”</p><p>Joe sussed out a number of small but telling details about Grinkhov (and his further dickheadedly proclivities) as he pretended interest in various wildly expensive properties around the Valley.  He was beginning to regret Grinkhov wasn’t Immortal, because Glenda was a talented observer with a dark and deep sense of humor.  She might have made a great Watcher, but for a disconcerting tendency to say exactly what was on her mind.  </p><p>Joe did talk Glenda into taking a ski day off herself, to clear the decks for any future fireworks, telling her, “If you get in trouble for closing up, just tell him that a grizzled old fart with a lot of money wanted you to personally show him the sights,” doing his best not to channel his inner cad.  “In fact, you can make the excuse bulletproof if you tell me how to get to this address,” Joe told her the name of the timeshare.</p><p>“Heck, that’s just down the street.  And Grinkhov is trying to buy the place, so it’s even real business.  I’ll drive you there in no time, darlin’,” Glenda offered.  “It’s an old pre-code pile, but it has the best views.”  Her conspiratorial laugh still made him feel warm and toasty after she dropped him off on the corner to walk down to the condos.  He put on his shades and just stood for a moment to pull in the sun and the clean high altitude air.  </p><p>The snow squeaked underfoot as Joe made his way down the uneven sidewalk.  He took the time to stop and study the mountain that dominated the town’s skyline.  Sunlight sparked through rooster tails thrown up by the turns of microdot skiers.  Joe thought of Methos arcing down the mountain, the next closest thing to flying.  He smiled at an honest pang of jealousy, and turned to carefully move on.</p><p>And nearly cannoned into Methos.</p><p>“Two hours in town and you’re already dating?” Methos complimented.  “Even MacLeod will be impressed.”</p><p>“What are you doing here?” Joe asked, nettled.</p><p>“Grinkhov didn’t show at the lodge.  So, like any good minion, I came to report to you at the office.  But like any good wingman, I followed at a discreet distance when you charmed a ride home.”</p><p>Joe bit back a scathing reply, in part because Methos had been drafted for this trip and deserved his fun, and in part because he knew the Immortal had an infinite capacity for escalation.  “The good news is, Cory and Richie made it to town,” he said, sticking to business.  He pointed down at the parking lot.</p><p>Cory’s vintage truck stood out, with all the bits and pieces of Richies bike still piled in the back.  Methos sniffed the air.  “Well, no sign of any quickenings, so good news indeed.”</p><p>“If Richie has an overnight guest, socializing might be problematic, but it’s not a dealbreaker,” Joe considered the approaches. </p><p>“Cory is open-minded, and makes a decent eggs florentine.  You could invite your girlfriend,” Methos observed.  “But good news implies...bad news?”</p><p>Joe pointed into the upper parking lot, where a flashy camo painted Humvee utterly failed to fade into the leafless aspens in the background.  “I do believe that’s Grinkhov’s ride.”</p><p>Methos was disappointed.  “Then I gather brunch is delayed.”</p><p>“Maybe, maybe not.” Joe wasn’t in the mood for skulking in the bushes, waiting to see what happened.  He weighed the options--he could only just navigate the shoveled walks and plowed roads.  Everywhere else there was two feet of snow on the valley floor.  “Why don’t you go around back, and I’ll take the frontal assault.  Unless you have a better idea.”</p><p>“When in doubt, I wing it out of town.”</p><p>Joe ignored the threat.  When Methos blew town, he didn’t advertise.   “While I’m diverting the target, you can scout the situation from the back deck.”</p><p>“And if it is the worst case scenario?”</p><p>“Wing it.”</p><p>“I shouldn’t have returned the ski suit,” Methos muttered, eying the untracked snow doubtfully.  “Any more details to your plan for your cunning daylight raid?”</p><p>“Well, I can just knock and pretend to be a neighbor wanting to borrow a sugar-laced pre-holiday cup of Irish coffee from my buddy Richie,” Joe fantasized.  “It has the benefit of being true.”</p><p>“It’s the simple things in life,” Methos agreed.  “Try not to get shot again, please.”</p><p>“Top of my list, believe me.”</p><p> </p><p>******************</p><p> </p><p>Cory could talk.  Richie had heard some world class whoppers in the last few years, but for sheer volume of terrifyingly believable nonsense, Cory hit ten on the bullshit meter.  Even Richie was beginning to believe some of his grue-laden stories about Faraday cages, Persian battery jars, and Isaac Newton’s unfortunate early experiments with magnetite infused Golems.  </p><p>Richie hit his cues every time Cory came around again to pitch tapping his young and shiny mutated bioelectric fields.  This time, all he had to do was glare and say bitterly, “Vampire, much?” before Cory was off again about freshness, clean lines and budding lobes of electricus.  </p><p>“You didn’t talk to me about my lobes when we...when we… ,” Richie trailed off, training his best watery and betrayed urban urchin gaze on Grinkhov, then on Cory.  </p><p>It bounced off without a dent.  “Don’t ask, don’t tell, kid.”</p><p>“C’mon, man, that’s skeevy.”</p><p>“It does present problems with monetizing the process in the future,” Grinkhov agreed with even skeevier pragmatism, making more notes in his planner.  “But no insurmountable difficulties in the present.  If it works.”  He concentrated on his list, and Richie used the rare lapse in attention to quickly slide one of Amanda’s straight pins out of its hiding place in the cuff of his motorcycle jacket.  Two bends and a turn...Richie almost dropped it as a loud knock shook the front door.</p><p>Grinkhov immediately slipped the notebook inside his jacket and tightened the grip on his silenced gun, pointing it instinctively at the door, then back to the Immortals.  “Who knows you are here?”</p><p>Richie was almost as surprised as Grinkhov.  “Nobody.”</p><p>Grinkhov’s eyes narrowed.  “Not Amanda?  Not your rich friend with the dojo, Duncan MacLeod?  Are you all invulnerable?”  The gun swung back.</p><p>Cory suddenly called out loudly, “No maid service today, please!  Come back tomorrow!”  Richie kicked himself for not realizing it might be one of the innocent condo workers.</p><p>They all waited one beat, two, three.</p><p>“Let me in, Grinkhov.  I came a long way.  Don’t keep me waiting,” a deep, carrying voice came from the other side of the door.  The knob rattled.  </p><p>Richie’s heart sank at the sound of Joe Dawson’s voice.</p><p>Grinkhov was not a man of slow decisions.  He abruptly took three steps down the entry and unlocked the deadbolt.  “Please, step in,” he invited, even as he retreated back to the kitchen, keeping the gun ready, just masked by the kitchen counter, all targets in play.  “Come all the way in, and close the door.”</p><p>“Yeah, yeah, no one knows what goes on behind closed doors.”  Joe derisively air quoted, as he lumbered into the room, leaning hard on his cane.  He moved much more slowly than the last time Richie had seen him, all of a week before.  “My contacts say you’re in the market for information, of a very specific nature.”</p><p>“I haven’t heard from my contractors, yet” Grinkhov said with suspicion.  </p><p>“I don’t deal with contractors.”</p><p>“Who are you?”</p><p>“Bob Snood,” Joe said calmly.  Next to Richie, Cory sat up straight, suddenly very interested in the conversation.  </p><p>“Ahhh.  Apparently ‘Snood’ is some sort of passcode for the initiated?  You’re a Witness?” Grinkhov partly asked, partly accused.</p><p>“Information is my stock in trade,” Joe backtracked.  “You don’t need to know anything more than that.”  Richie knew Joe well enough to catch the quick blink of confusion in his eyes, followed by a feral and reckless glint.  “Let’s settle the terms up front,” he growled, the pure alpha businessman.  “One million to begin the conversation.  Ten million to enter into a consultancy.  Fifteen million for a full service contract.”  Just to put a fine point on it, he added, “Yearly.”</p><p>Grinkhov barely flinched.  “Indeed.  What if I decide I don’t need your help?”</p><p>“You definitely need my help if you’ve been listening to these two penny ante clowns,” Joe insulted, giving Richie a dismissive wave.  </p><p>Richie kept still and silent as the age-old the spell of greed was spun and woven. Even Cory was being unusually quiet.  They all watched as Joe surveyed the room with rude deliberation, the living room, the kitchen, the sliding door to the deck that steeply dropped off into an untracked field of snow.  “Nice view, at least.”  Then he leaned negligently against the back of the sofa forcing Grinkhov to widen his attention and field of fire.</p><p>Grinkhov frowned, and examined his new visitor more closely.  “You don’t look invulnerable.  In fact, it looks like you don’t avail yourself of any of the services I am interested in acquiring,” he said carefully.</p><p>“I.  Don’t.  Look.  Invulnerable,” Joe drawled, the dangerous lilt in his voice dropping to an even more sinister purr.  “It turns out that in the course of a few hundred centuries, shit happens.”  </p><p>The words widened Cory’s eyes. Even Richie shivered.  Grinkhov actually took half a step back.</p><p>“He’s good, whoever he is,” Cory breathed in Richie’s ear.  “Don’t forget to finish unlocking your cuff while he’s got Sam’s full attention.”</p><p>Belatedly, Richie dialed up some of Amanda’s tutorials and picked the lock, resetting the loop to an easier diameter to slip off.   </p><p>“We hit Grinkhov together, then take out the old guy,” Cory added.  “He’s definitely trouble.”</p><p>Before Richie could object, someone tapped at the door.  This time, the knocking sounded hesitant, uncertain.  There was nothing uncertain, however, about the Immortal signature that washed over both Richie and Cory.  </p><p>“Come in, the door’s open,” Joe called out, stealing Grinkhov’s authority.  “Ben, straighten up,” he added critically.  “It’s just my clerk.  Try not to scare him.  They’re harder to recruit for in this business than you might think.”</p><p>Grinkhov was not happy about any of these new developments.  “Don’t try my patience, Mr. Snood, or whoever you are.  I can and will shoot you all and sort you out later.”</p><p>“I don’t like working with amateurs,” Joe shot back, staring him down, commanding his full attention.  “Mr. Grinkhov here is vacillating, Ben.  This may be a wasted trip.”  Joe levered up and stalked majestically over to the sliding glass window, ignoring the gun. “Blood drops all over the foliage, bleach smell on the step, hasty cleanup…the beancounters hate messy forensics.” he muttered.</p><p>“I have my own resources,” Grinkhov protested, unused to the feeling of diminishment, and not liking it at all.  </p><p>Joe paced slowly back from the window, stepping into Grinkov’s personal space and leaning on the counter.  “We’ll have to bring in a crew, and it comes off your bill, Grinkhov.  Make a note of it, Ben.”</p><p>Methos dutifully started searching his pockets for something to write with, freezing with a pen halfway drawn from his parka pocket when he saw the gun trained on him.</p><p>Which was the exact point when another knock sounded at the door, firm and loud.  “Hey, Joe!  It’s Glenda!” Glenda called out with irrepressible energy.  “I forgot to give you my phone number!”</p><p>“My secretary?  Even my secretary is a part of this?” Grinkhov was beyond harried and well into harassed.  His aim darted from Cory, who had drawn up a leg, to Joe, who was staring at the door with nothing resembling aplomb, to the slouching clerk, who was nervously gripping his pen.  “Is my secretary an Invulnerable, too?” he demanded, rounding on Richie.  “Or a Witness?”</p><p>“Maybe?” Richie said helplessly, not sure if there was any right answer, stalling for time.  He still earned a glare from Joe.</p><p>“No.” Joe barked.</p><p>“Boss, shouldn’t we leave this mess to the second team?”  Methos said timidly.</p><p>“Surprise!” Cory chipped in, just for the chaotic effect.  “There’s a cavalry!”</p><p>“I think perhaps I will shoot first, and I find out exactly what is going on here after,” Grinkhov snarled, and pointed his weapon at the cheap particle board door.  </p><p>Richie gathered himself.  He didn’t get the chance to play hero every day.  This time he wasn’t going to waste it.</p><p> </p><p>******************</p><p> </p><p>Joe steadied himself with one hand on the couch and swung his cane, thwocking Grinkhov hard in the temple.  </p><p>Richie launched from the right and smothered the gun. </p><p>Cory leapt from the left, grabbing Grinkhov’s throat to cut off any sound.  </p><p>Methos slipped the point of his pen through the intercostal muscles between the floating ribs.</p><p>Glender knocked again.</p><p>“Just a moment, we’re not decent!” Cory sang out, snatching his sword from the kitchen island and swinging it uncomfortably close to Joe’s bread basket.  “Hello, Benjamin,” Cory said cordially.  “This a friend of yours?”</p><p>“Hello, Bob,” Methos said, with matching amiability.  “A friend of mine is a friend of yours,” he offered in theory, if not in practical application.</p><p>“He called himself ‘Bob Snood’.”</p><p>Methos winced.  “I’m sure no insult was intended.”</p><p>Joe sighed.  “It just kind of popped into my mind.”</p><p>“I find that a bit upsetting.”</p><p>Many colloquial words were exchanged, and Joe promised to never ever steal one of Cory’s alias’ again.  “I earned that monicker,” Cory warned, before lowering the sword and looking for a dish towel to cover the blood.</p><p>“Don’t leave me out in the cold, boys, I’ve seen it all before,” Glender warned from the step.</p><p>Joe glanced at Methos, his eyes only now revealing a touch of panic.</p><p>Methos checked Joe’s clothes for droplets, slapped him on the back, and pronounced him good.  Methos then swept off his own parka and his sweater, for good measure, and dropped them over the body.  He made it to the door just as Glenda swept it open.  Bare chested and alone, he manfully held the portal as she inspected Methos’ beaming mien, among other high points.</p><p>“Grandpa Joe told us all about you, Glenda!” he announced in warm welcome.  “Sorry, the place is a mess, and he says we can’t let anyone see it until we clean it up.”</p><p>Joe hustled down the entry hall and elbowed Methos firmly out of the way.  “Don’t listen to _Cousin_ Ben, he’s an inveterate liar,” Joe pled.  “A sad case.  But he’s right about there being crime scene in there.  College kids.  How about we duck out of this joint, and I take you to out to lunch?”  He smiled and held out his arm.  “It’ll be the perfect alibi.”</p><p>“Do you have something in mind that needs an alibi?” Glenda’s eyes sparkled in mischief.</p><p>“Constantly,” Methos reassured them both from the door, waving to them like a proud parent sending their teen out to their first prom.  </p><p>Joe and Glenda’s further adventures in the Valley of the Sun were never entered in any known Chronicle, written then or since.  </p><p> </p><p>***************</p><p> </p><p>Alibi firmly established, Joe did eventually return that evening to write up an after action report on Grinkhov’s demise.  It was quite short and to the point.  Unprecedentedly, it was also agreed upon by all involved.  </p><p>The assembled Immortals all generously allowed that Joe achieved the first blow, laying Grinkhov low in surprise, and opening the avenues of attack.</p><p>Methos’ thrust was voted the most efficiently lethal, completely extinguishing Grinkhov’s empirical ambitions, but all record of his participation was ultimately excised, with prejudice.  </p><p>Cory’s quick thinking kept an alarm from being raised, and added critical seconds of preparation before Glenda’s invasion through the unlocked door.</p><p>The report also did not mention Cory sweeping up his blade and holding it to Joe’s throat.  Joe was just too mortally embarrassed at his rude lapse, and Cory generously let it pass.</p><p>Richie’s assault was spun into the most dangerous and heroic, in the final draft.  If Richie hadn’t completely disarmed the opponent and left him helpless, the Invulnerables might be exposed, and the Witnesses revealed to governments and law enforcement agencies everywhere.  Richie would go on telling it for many moons to come.</p><p>Joe planned on translating a few of the more peculiar details for the Watcher version later, after Cory and Richie departed to take care of the body.</p><p>When no one was looking, Methos slipped Grinkhov’s notebook off the body and slid it into his pocket.  </p><p>Joe did leave the cause of death undetermined, in the end, since no one particularly wanted the credit or the blame.  He did go so far as to say that Grinkhov might have expired of sheer apoplexy from the avalanche of bullshit being flung all over the room.  </p><p> </p><p>******************</p><p> </p><p>The ‘57 GMC growled to life, and rolled down the highway back out of the mountains of central Idaho as darkness fell.  The high desert winds howled past the windshield as Richie and Cory headed back west on Highway 20.  </p><p>Fingerlets of drifting snow built up over the remains of Richie’s bike and a bungee wrapped blue tarpaulin in the truck bed.  The stars were sparking in a moonless sky as they pulled over on the top of Cat Creek summit.  Richie got out and ran his hand over the same spot on the guardrail that he had dented only the night before.</p><p>Wordlessly, they worked together to release the bungee cords and unwrap the frozen tarp.  With surprising gentleness Cory took the shoulders, and Richie gingerly held the legs.  “On three,” Cory said, his voice low, though there were no ears to hear within many miles.</p><p>Together they hove the body over the rail, and watched as it tumbled far down the slope to nestle deeply into a drift near the bottom.  </p><p>“I don’t know the words,” Richie said, as they stared down into the darkness.</p><p>“If he’d been a more generous man, he’d be alive today,” Cory said with bleak conviction.  And those were all the words there were.</p><p>Then Richie pulled the parts and pieces of his motorcycle out of the back, and ceremoniously hucked them over the edge as well.  “I can’t keep the handlebars?” he asked sadly, but pitched them as far as he could after Cory shook his head.</p><p>The fender and saddlebags were the last pieces tossed over the edge to sink into the drifts until spring.  The shiny new Idaho license plate that Joe had somehow finagled that afternoon flashed in the truck headlights, then fell into the dark, along the brand new motorcycle title registered to Sam Grinkhov, real estate developer.</p><p>“Hey, what’s this other bag?” Richie asked, poking a nondescript duffel left under the tarp between their own bags.</p><p>“I figured it was yours.  Your mysterious Witness buddy tossed it in just before we left, while you were stripping the bike VIN and adding the new license.  Good work, that.  Maybe you can give me his phone number for, you know, the occasional emergency?”</p><p>“Not a chance, buddy.  His secrets have secrets,” Richie said fervently.</p><p>“Have to admire your loyalty.  You know, I caught a little bit of a favorite uncle vibe, there.  Just how well do you know him?”  He motioned Richie to get into the cab as distant headlights flashed a few miles down the canyon.</p><p>“He’s just a guy,” Richie said hastily as he dragged the bag into the cab with them and picked at the clips and ties.  “A good guy.  A drinking buddy.”  Richie stopped talking before he got in any deeper.  </p><p>“Relax.  He’s not my type,” Cory reassured, without leering.  Much.  He fired up the truck and looked both ways, tapping the wheel.</p><p>Richie ignored the bait, and stared inside the duffel.  He pulled out a note, and squinted to read it under the GMC’s dashboard lights.</p><p> <i> “Merry early Christmas!  We found this getaway bag just lying around in the trunk of Grinkhov’s fancy Hummer.  He packed it away before coming after you.  As a certain wiseguy we know says, sneaky minds think alike.  </i></p><p>
  <i>  “He also says ask Bob Snood what to do with the papers.  I reserved a stack of green to pay your future bar bill off, the rest you can figure out on your travels.  Have fun!  I still owe you one.  </i>
</p><p>   “PS.  Burn this note.  PPS.  ‘Snood’ means ‘Hood’.”</p><p>Richie popped the cigarette lighter in and tapped his foot, thinking, until it popped back out.  Then he carefully torched the note, keeping it well out of Cory’s reach, rolling down the window to get rid of the ashes.  He pulled a stack of hundreds out of the bag and divided it evenly between them on the dash. “Gas, beer, and motel money.”</p><p>“Always a delight to work with a professional,” Cory grinned.  </p><p>Richie handed Cory a selection from the stack of legal papers.  “What would you do with these?”</p><p>Cory leafed through the forms and certificates, his smile growing sunny and bright.  “I’d run these through a little legal laundromat I know, and then call together some of these people for another crackling bonfire.”</p><p>“A mortgage burning party?  This Robbin’ Snooding gig sounds like fun.   Do you think Ullr the Snow God would approve?”</p><p>“He’ll be stoked,” Cory laughed.  “Wanna go back and celebrate for a while?”</p><p>“Yes!” Richie punched the ceiling of the cab, totally stoked.  “Will you teach me how to ski?”</p><p>“Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”  Cory hit the turn signal and headed back up the neverending highway to the Street of Dreams.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>@@@@@@@@@</p><p>The end</p><p>@@@@@@@@@</p>
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